


i held on as tightly as you held onto me

by sarcieles (orphan_account)



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men The Last Stand, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: (Even so Scott is still a douche), Cherik - Freeform, Crying, Even though Charles is kinda dead, First Time, Fluff, Idk I didn't watch all of it, M/M, Old Charles and Erik, Post - X-Men: The Last Stand (2006), Young Charles and Erik, because why not, inspired by songs, lots and lots of fluff, plane scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4760114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sarcieles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik never had a home. He resided in places and never looked back, never caring if he ever saw it again.</p>
<p>Charles built him a home that never left him.</p>
<p>Inspired by "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra. (Gah this song like kill meeeee)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i held on as tightly as you held onto me

**Author's Note:**

> I love this song, it's so Cherik-y. The link is [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkP6Tf79UrM)

Erik had never had a home. Once. A vague idea ripped open with anti-Semitism and Nazis and Sebastian Shaw. He had had a home, perhaps, with his Mama and Papa when they were poor, but happy. Regardless, Erik didn't remember what it was like.

Ever since Shaw disappeared from Erik's life, Erik had vowed to hunt him down. He'd gone to remote places, China, Russia (this was incredibly tricky), Canada, Mexico, Switzerland, France, Madagascar even. This meant that the ideology of a home, either in the mind or physical being, was a nicety Erik couldn't afford to indulge himself in. There was no set place, other than the ground where Shaw's blood would taint. After that there was static, like a blank station on a radio.

While Erik realized this kind of life was the life of a psychopath. Doing the same thing, the same action, over and over and expecting the same result each time. It was the definition of insanity, he knew, but peace of mind was about as important as having a place to go back to. And he accepted that.

Then he met Charles.

This man had _always_ had a place to call home, a mansion that looked like a castle with vast amounts of rooms with fire in each of the hearths and food in the pantry. He never _envied_ this life, only wondered how it was possible for there to be such a difference between them. Yet, Erik found that no one understood him better than the telepath. Erik sought him out when he was doubtful or angry or having any emotion at all, and really tried to avoid everybody else. Charles had this sort of radiant energy that filled Erik up with some sort of emotion Erik faintly remembered. Hope, perhaps. Happiness.

It filled him up to the point where it reached his heart, not just his mind. His heart was an empty cavern of revenge and rage, blackened from the lack of light and care. No blood pumped to it, or out of it. It simply sat there, like a tumor in his chest, weighing him down. Erik often times wished he could get rid of it entirely. But Charles slowly exposed it to hope again, gradually opening up the curtains and dusting away the cobwebs.There were times when Erik was sure he would run away upon seeing how ugly it was, how broken and jagged, like it was surrounded by barbed wire. Barbed wire covered in gruesome images of dirty, skinny, hallowed people working their way to death and having no say. Snippets of the ugly, dry chuckle and the record that played in Erik's dreams every night, punctuated by a gunshot.

But Charles didn't run away.

He adorned the fragments of his heart with friendship and teamwork and serenity, hung paintings and bookshelves of ideas and memories he had so long forgotten about. There were walls that made Erik feel safe, and windows that shone with morning light that warmed Erik's face, a bed that Erik could rest in. Charles built a home, so to speak, inside his heart, and moved in.

And it was glorious.

Charles made his heart glow and radiate feelings he couldn't ever remember having, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. To love someone with the entirety of his being was the equivalent to the purest dopamine rush, killing Shaw and resurrecting Mama. Oh, it was wondrous, and Erik relished in every moment it had to bring. Charles, even though he practically lived in his heart and mind, had no idea. He hadn't the slightest inkling that Erik loved him so much. And, what was completely surprising to Erik, was that he was okay with it, because, really, he didn't know how love worked.

He did know that there was this burning, fluttering sensation in his abdomen that made him feel like he was floating, static replacing all coherent thought whenever Charles smiled, his repaired heart skipping a beat whenever their hands touched. If this was love, well, he wanted it. He wanted, and even though he had taught himself not to want, he felt like he wanted it so much he needed it. Maybe he did, it was that intense. Erik Lehnsherr, Nazi hunter and killer, wanted love. How did it make so much sense?

He didn't even care if it made no sense. It was true, and he was finally willing to want a home again. And Charles was willing to provide one, one with warm chess games and long conversations and lingering eye contact that said much more than words ever could. Erik wanted it all.

Shaw had taught him not to love, not to want. It wasn't that hard to teach him this. Strangely enough it was like it was already hardwired into Erik's brain.

So Charles picked up the pieces, brought Erik's mind back to relearn how it could work and what it could do.

"Rage and serenity," Charles said, "is psychological. Though you may feel it in your body, in your brain, where all of that comes from is your _mind."_

"It's all the same," replied Erik quizzically. Charles shook his head.

"They are separate beasts, the brain and the mind. You see, the brain is what resides in your skull, it sends neurological signals to all parts of your body to feel pain or elation or sadness on a strictly physical level. Your mind, however, is like what you may call your soul. It's what makes you Erik, and me Charles. There is a bold difference, if you look." said the telepath softly. He gently tapped his temple. "I read minds, not brains."

Erik paused and looked at the creases of Charles' eyes. Wherever Erik's _mind_ was, if Charles' theory was correct--though it was more of a belief than a theory--he would find his powers and abilities. Abilities to remember the good, be the better man, love another. If he found it, there would be no limitation on what he could do or feel.

"No, there wouldn't," whispered Charles. He looked at Erik, then at the gravel path with a sort of startled look in his eyes. Erik took a step back, feeling slightly betrayed that Charles had read his mind. If he had seen what Erik had been hiding, or rather just keeping tucked away, there would be no going back. Charles would leave the home he had constructed in Erik's heart and leave it to rot. Again.

Charles took a step forward. And another. And another, until they were chest to chest, toe to toe. "Erik," he breathed. With nothing to say Erik felt rather daft, because he should be saying something, _anything,_ to deny it, to make it all go back to normal. They couldn't be doing this, even with Charles living in his heart and mind at all moments of the day, even with the glimmer in Charles' eyes. _Even._

"Even nothing." growled the telepath, finally closing the distance between each other with a gentle kiss that tore apart Erik more than if Charles had walked away and moved out. Tender fingers threaded their way through Erik's hair, finding purchase around the back of his head. They pulled his rigid form closer. Then Erik was no longer rigid. He moved quicker than his brain, letting his _mind_ take over--

"Yes," Charles hissed breathlessly. Erik reacted even more to the ragged, _needing_ tone of his voice, wrapping his hands around Charles' neck and almost lifting him up to meet his mouth. His heart thrummed in time with the others'--buh _bum_ buh _bum_ \--as Charles opened his mouth, letting him in, welcoming him... And he knew, instantly, he was home. Erik had somehow made his own home in Charles without knowing it, and Charles had done so as well. He could feel it in his arms, in his lips which were as smooth as velvet, in his thoughts, in his eyes, in his heart. Oh, Erik _loved_ how cliche it was, how seemingly perfect all of this played out. _  
_

Sometimes, when Erik was little and naive, he would fantasize about meeting his soulmate. Even at eight years old, he knew he wasn't attracted to girls. (He never told his parents, though he suspected they knew, but just didn't care.) His perfect person had no defined look, but a personality like spun gold. They weren't perfect, because Erik didn't like perfect people. He found that those were the ones with the most problems. One thing that he _did_ want the person to have physically though, was blue eyes. Blue like the ocean and Mama's favorite apron, or like the paints Papa used to paint the shed.

Charles' eyes were even bluer than that.

Erik saw beauty and love and acceptance and hope in them, copious amounts of hope that shined like diamonds and burned like a magnesium fire. There was more hope in Charles than Erik had ever seen collectively in his entire life. God, it was beautiful.

And it was his.

"Erik," murmured Charles. Erik rested his forehead against the telepath's.

"Charles," Erik replied softly. Charles just sighed and snuggled his arms around his waist. Like he was sleeping in his bed after months of being away, or coming home to familiarity. Erik knew the feeling.

Finally, finally he knew.

 

 

 

"What do you _want_ from me, Erik?" Charles murmured as he dragged his hand over his face, the plane still on its way to Paris. Erik had left in Cuba. He left home, never planning to return.

What a goddamn _mistake._

What did Erik want? Mutant emancipation and human extermination, his brain supplied at once. A lingering feeling that he got something wrong wriggled its way into his brain. No. He didn't _want_ that. _Two separate beasts, the brain and the mind,_ a memory resurfaced. Erik bit back a strangled sound, barely, just _barely_ managing it. Charles got up and sighed, starting towards the cockpit.

"I want to come home," Erik whispered. Charles stopped mid-stride. Every muscle in his body was locked like he was about to go into a fight. Erik used to be able to see them, through the fitted cardigans he used to wear--while they were not like his own, Charles was not soft. It was like everything was just below the surface, giving off the impression of the scholar he was while being strong enough to pin Erik down for at least ten seconds.

"Erik," he breathed. A warning.

They couldn't have this anymore, he knew. He made that one fatal mistake and everything fell apart; the walls were torn down and the windows smashed, everything thrown from its place in a flurry of just _done._ Finished. Destroyed.

"I want to come home," repeated Erik, his voice barely above a strained whisper. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. "Ever since... I'm _sorry."_

"Erik, I...," Charles choked out. He still wasn't looking at him. His heel was still off the floor, his shoulders rapidly rising and falling with his ragged breaths. Distantly Erik wondered whether or not he still had his cinnamon freckles on his arms and cheeks, just hidden under years of disuse. Abandonment.

Then he swiveled around slowly, and Erik got up and stood, frozen, fists at his sides.

"I...," tried the telepath again. "I can't..."

Erik didn't let him say anything more.

He walked over in three long strides and hugged him. For some reason he could not bring himself to kiss him, he didn't ever think he could, but this, this was more than enough. Charles seemed to not know what to do, with his arms stiff, his fingers rigid.

"I missed you," Erik whispered into his hair. While it gave off the impression of dry and greasy, it actually was quite soft. He nuzzled his nose into it and inhaled. Closed his eyes.

Charles slowly, very slowly, lifted up his arms and wrapped them around Erik's back. His fingers splayed over his ribs, and Erik, even while being the touch-deprived prisoner that he was, made his exhale that his body intended to be a moan sound more like an exhale. Then Charles crushed himself up against him. Erik stumbled backwards and caught himself.

Suddenly a wetness dampened the skin around Erik's neck. Charles' chest shuddered against him as he began to cry. At first it was just small, shaky breaths, but it soon escalated to sobbing, Charles clutching Erik's shirt as he pulled himself closer and closer. Eventually Erik was crying too.

He hadn't cried in years, only after Cuba for a few days. But it was nothing compared to this.

Gasps were being forced from his chest like someone was knocking it out of him. His eyes were shut so tight it hurt. No doubt Logan or Hank were hearing this.

"I missed you too," Charles managed, his voice still throbbing, as he pushed himself up to kiss Erik. Erik let out a breathless groan and grabbed Charles' face in his hands.

As soon as Erik let him in, it was like someone opening dusty curtains. Cobwebs were being swept away, the tables and chairs righted in their proper place, dusted off and worn. The books were placed back on the shelf and the paintings were re-framed and hung.

This time it was different, though. Like there was something else. Charles had not only built a home, but a garden. One where he could grow ideas and aspirations and hope. There were flowers and bees and hummingbirds and butterflies, sun that not only warmed but nourished. In the middle, Erik could sense a large tree, one with large branches and leaves. Birds had their nests and squirrels had their burrows in the crevices and notches of the bark. It was like nothing else Erik had ever felt before.

Like it _was_ Erik.

The metal-bender held on tighter, and while it hadn't seemed possible it was. Charles was gently kissing him, just as he had eleven years ago when peace was possible and they were young. They were still young enough. Young enough to still have this, to still be able to do this. Maybe being too old wasn't the problem. Maybe being too old to have to think they were still young enough was.

_I love you,_ Erik thought. He almost waited for someone to say it back.

"I love you," he said aloud. Charles let out another sob as he pulled back. He dug his nose into Erik's neck. "I love you..."

"I love you too," he breathed, his swallow thick and his voice even thicker. "God, I've _always_ loved you."

Erik nodded and gingerly dipped his fingers underneath Charles' shirt to make lazy circles on his skin. The ex-telepath hummed, deep and low, into Erik's chest.

"Come home."

 

 

"Erik?" Charles asked as he wheeled to the window. In the silvery moonlight Erik's hair flashed brilliantly white, his cape billowing in the wind.

"Charles," he replied calmly. He had left the helmet with Mystique. Maybe she would use it, or hang it somewhere. Where Erik was, he didn't need it. He'd never really needed it, if he were to be honest.

"No, you haven't," Charles chuckled, and Erik almost frowned when he remembered that now meant Charles could read his thoughts. "With permission though, of course."

"Which I've never given." retorted Magneto. Charles smiled as he struggled to close the window. With the flick of his gloved wrist the pane slid down and the latch locked.

"Well, not bringing that dreaded helmet was an indicator... Though, I guess I was wrong, my friend." Charles sighed. Despite all his years in a chair, the telepath's posture was excellent. Not that Erik's wasn't either; growing up in either a very polite, firm mother's household (and being experimented on by madman) or under strict supervision from an abusive stepfather and the entire Westchester community must've done something.

"Ah, but it was more than Westchester. More like the entire state of New York. Or, the parts that paid attention at least."

"I'm sure everyone paid attention," scoffed Erik, "You were the richest family other than the Vanderbilts and the President."

"I guess _I_ wasn't paying attention then," shrugged Charles, flashing a small smile at Erik before closing the curtains and opening the door a crack. Light from the hallway filtered into the otherwise dark room. Charles' shadow cast on the rug. Even with at least forty years between when they had met, when they were young and foolish and just a bit naive, Erik still thought Charles was the most beautiful thing he'd laid eyes on. Yes, it was cliche, but it was true. His eyes still shone brilliantly azure, if not more so. And though he didn't have his silky chocolate-colored hair or the  _exact_ redness that his lips used to have, he was stunning nonetheless.

"Oh Erik," Charles whispered, his eyes concerned and almost disappointed. "What is it you want?"

"I told you," Erik said, taking off his cape and gloves and draping them over a leather armchair. "I told you in 1962, and I told you ten years later, I told you ten years after that too." he paused to walk over to Charles' wheelchair. "I want to come home, Charles. If you'll have me."

A pained noise came from Charles' throat. "Of course I'll have you, you stupid oaf," he whispered. "I've always wanted you to come back."

Erik brought his lips gently to his, remembering that they were too old to be young and have this and too old to care about that anyway.

"There's always going to be an extra room for you here," Charles murmured.

"Good." Erik said, his fingers tracing down the shoulder of Charles' silk pajamas.

"Provided you don't scare the students or terrorize them." said the telepath.

"I don't terrorize people...," Erik grumbled. Charles laughed and wheeled over to the bed, where he lifted himself up and onto it. He patted his hand on the space next to it.

Erik obliged.

As he crawled onto the bed he felt something touch his mind. A curious stroke that felt so familiar and so foreign at the same time.

"I built a home?" Charles asked.

"Yes," mumbled Erik, a laugh bubbling at the back of his throat. He was surprised at how easy the answer had come. "From the beginning."

"You did too," the other man whispered, "Even with all the dust, it still had everything it needed."

_More than,_ Erik thought.

_So much more,_ agreed Charles, before falling asleep like he'd had Erik in his bed beside him for years.

 

 

**~FIN~**

 

 

 


End file.
